


Heaven and Earth

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-30
Updated: 2005-06-30
Packaged: 2019-02-11 19:55:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12942570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: When it rains, it pours. (Geneva, 1816)





	Heaven and Earth

**Author's Note:**

> 1816 is often referred to as being the "Year Without a Summer" due to the sweeping meteorological abnormalities which went along with the catastrophic eruption of Mount Tambora in 1815.

“Yes.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean: ‘Yes’?”

“I didn’t hear what you said.” Aziraphale smiled affably, folding his hands atop his lap, and tilted his head in such a way as to give the appearance of being at once quite attentive and thoroughly distracted. A fly began to buzz round his ear, and he swatted at it with a sublime patience. “Well, do go on.”

“I said I should never have let you talk me into coming here.”

Aziraphale’s smile narrowed, but only just so. “Oh,” he said. “Whyever do you say that?”

“I don’t need to go on holiday to traipse about in the rain, and it’s done little more than rain since we left London.”

“I seem to remember a block of sunshine when we were in Antwerp, between nine and eleven on the fifteenth.”

“That was when we were hauled up inside a museum, yes?”

“Exactly.” Aziraphale nodded. “But the landscape looks very well here, does it not?”

Crowley thrust the oars forward with more force than was strictly necessary, causing the little boat to bound over a swell of water; Aziraphale whispered an oath beneath his breath and they settled back down again with scarcely a wayward splash.

It was past noon, though few fragmented beams of sunlight were successful in breeching the thick gray mass of overhanging clouds, and the morning’s mist had yet to dispel from the glistening surface of the lake. The air was heavy with the scent of lilac and damp earth, and the sight of Mont Blanc, a sterling fang set to tear open the sky in a sleek sliver of tumbled memories, made Crowley’s temples ache. “I’ve seen better,” he said.

Crowley had been to Geneva rather more recently than Aziraphale, but even then it was only to see about that odd Rousseau fellow [1]. His idea of a pleasant way to wile away the hours did not involve bobbing about in an oversized washbasin of algae-tinted water, but in Crowley’s recent absence Aziraphale had apparently subscribed to a monthly travelogue journal and taken to heart one intrepid wanderer’s advice about experiencing the grandeur of Continental Europe now to avoid the St. Swithin’s Day rush.

“Better?” Aziraphale repeated incredulously.

“Without a doubt.”

“But you do realize that you wouldn’t get such a view from beneath the duvet, surely.”

“I also wouldn’t have to worry about being rained on.”

“You’ve not been rained on.”

“In principle, no,” Crowley said slowly, “but I still have to _look_ at it.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Really, my dear, we’ve been over this _so_ many times. It wouldn’t be raining this much if there wasn’t a great layer of ash suspended above the earth, and there wouldn’t be a great layer of ash suspended above the earth if there hadn’t been that bit of unpleasantness with the volcano, and there wouldn’t have been that bit of unpleasantness with the volcano if you hadn’t been so... so _displeased_ at being woken by the maid.”

“She was on strict instructions.”

“The darling old thing only wanted to turn your bedclothes, as you well know.”

“They were clean. They didn’t _need_ turning.”

“You had been sleeping on them for more than a decade. Even the most steadfast cloth could use a little refreshing after that amount of time.”

Crowley shook his head. Pont in fact, the bedclothes _had_ become a bit stuffy, but there certainly were more efficient ways of seeing to them then a draught of soap and water. “It wasn’t my fault,” he said. “Butterfly wings in China and all of that.”

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale began patting down his pockets, and with an eager smile he retrieved the golden spyglass from his waistcoat. “I think the scenery very fine.”

As their movement slowed, Crowley dipped his fingers into the water, absentmindedly tracing fluid lines and fine sigils atop the silver-backed surface. His breath became scarce and then stopped altogether while the surrounding chirrs of insects and the sound of gently lapping waves took on the quality of a steady silence that was punctuated only by Aziraphale’s occasional murmurs of exclamation. Crowley felt his muscles relax, soft flesh against white-washed wood, and his chin bobbed towards his chest in expectation of sleep.

“Hello!” the angel chirped suddenly. “Good heavens, but what could that be?”

Crowley pursed his lips for a moment, considering his words. “A larch,” he said definitively.

“No, no.” With a halting agility, Aziraphale pushed himself into the seat beside Crowley. He held out the spyglass, and when Crowley raised it to his eye, he was careful to guide it into the proper direction. “ _That_ ,” he said. “What sort of bird do you suppose it is?”

“Oh.”

It was an eaglet in full-flight, wings wide and hopeful as it glided towards the water’s edge, strong and calm as it plucked out a large, glimmering fish with astonishing ease. The breeze had begun to pick up, creating billows and plumes of motion across the lake, and Crowley was acutely aware of Aziraphale’s hand as it was perched upon his shoulder. Aziraphale smiled wonderingly, his cheeks gently flushed with pleasure, and as his clear eyes traced after the bird, he silently recited a scrap of forgotten verse.

Crowley felt a pinch in his stomach; his arm was lying along the railing which lay behind them, and it was with an act of certain will that he resolved to steady it. “Here,” he said, handing the spyglass back to Aziraphale. Their hands touched, and he looked out over the waters. “It’s about to start raining again.”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale protested breathlessly. He pointed to the single strand of light which remained free of the encroaching bank of cloud. “See? We’ve a while yet, I think.”

“No.” Crowley shook his head. The boat began to bob up and down with increasing intensity, and he reached for the oars. “I really think we ought to-- Steady on!”

“Oh, I _am_ sorry about that, my dear,” Aziraphale gasped, lifting himself up from Crowley’s lap. He held the side of the boat in a white-knuckled grip, his brow knit and his hair tousled. “Perhaps you’re right. It does look as though-- ouf!” He cried out and fell crashing to the bottom of the boat in a mess of limbs and woolen folds of clothing. “Excuse me,” he said, his voice earnest.

Crowley could not disguise his laughter. “Everything intact?” he asked.

“I believe so. It’s only that I seem to have misplaced my...”

“Yes?”

“My snuffbox,” Aziraphale sniffed defensively. “I had it here only a moment ago.”

Crowley struggled to keep the boat steady as the angel pawed over the floorboards with pointed disgust, fingers darting around the dust in each corner and curve. “Look,” he said. “Just leave it off until we’ve made it back to the shore. You can look for it when we’re docked.”

There was a crack of lightning overhead, illuminating the steel sky.

“Oh! There it is.” Aziraphale moved forward on all fours, only pausing after he was perfectly poised between Crowley’s knees. “Such a worrisome little thing,” he said. “I would be so sorry to lose it.”

“Come on, come on.” Crowley heaved the oars forward, and the wood creaked against the stress of the shifting water. “If you don’t hurry up, we’ll have to finish this at the bottom of the lake.”

“All right. It’s only a matter of maneuvering backwards and... Oh, _dear_.”

Crowley sighed, his gaze drifting down to Aziraphale’s prostrate form. “Yes?”

“There’s a bit of a leak down here. Nothing to be too concerned about, I’m sure, but it’s rather getting all over everything.”

“And would you care to do something about it?”

“Consider it done, my dear boy, but I am afraid your new satchel will be ruined.”

As Crowley grappled for the words to graft an appropriate response, he saw that another boat, equal in all but length and breadth, had pulled up beside them. It was occupied by two young men, one overdressed in a frockcoat and cravat, and the other in a fluttering white shirt with an open collar; the latter motioned brusquely and called out over the wind, “I say, sir! Have you the time?”

Crowley frowned. “What?”

“The time!” the young man repeated. “Have you the time?”

Before Crowley had the chance to respond, Aziraphale scuttled up into a kneeling position, mindful of Crowley’s legs and that which lay between them as he fumbled for his pocket watch. “It is, oh, twenty past four,” he wheezed helpfully, drawing a hand across his ruddy face. The boat bucked up on the crest of a wave, and he braced himself on Crowley’s thigh. “Are you quite all right?”

The man seemed to consider this, and his gaze betrayed his smile as it passed between Crowley and Aziraphale. “Thank you, yes,” he said after a moment, and then turned to his pallid, wide-eyed companion. “What did I tell you?” He shook his head as though not expecting an answer, and they began to row away once more.

Crowley waited until they had gone to help Aziraphale back onto his seat. “You were saying?”

“What strange gentlemen, to be out and about in such a deluge,” Aziraphale mused, opening his mallard’s head handled umbrella.

The rain knew better than to fall on Crowley. “Positively poetic,” he said.

\------------------

It was after midnight when Crowley finally slithered up the stairs in a low, drunken rumble and opened the door to their room. Aziraphale had been waiting for him, but he continued reading his book for a few paragraphs before glancing up. “Where have you been?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice casual.

“Playing billiards.”

“With whom?”

“That poet chap--” he snapped his fingers “--Byron. Met him out on the lake. He wanted the time. _You_ remember.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale pulled his spectacles from the bridge of his nose and rubbed the tender corners between his eyes. “I thought you hated billiards.”

“I do.” Crowley smiled guardedly. “Turned the queue into a great big bloody snake. He didn’t know what hit him. Thought it was the opium, said you know what they say about snakes, and I said of course I know. His mope-eyed poet friend outright fainted, and the doctor had to haul him off to bed.”

“I can imagine.”

“The thing is, well, he seems to have a funny idea about me.”

“Oh?”

Crowley nodded. “No accounting for it. After we’d had a few bottles of claret, he started talking about spirits and devils and magicians and whatnot. I was more than happy to fill in the gaps for him -- pink elephants in Pandaemonium, cherubim in Oxford Street, armadillos the size of pickup trucks in the Argentine [2] -- more things in heaven and earth, etcetera, ad infinitum. Said he was working on a play, and I said I’d be interested in reading it. Well, he was happy to oblige.” He took a seat, a little unsteadily, and pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from his waistcoat pocket. “ _This_ is the opening stanza.”

Aziraphale took the sheet, unfolded it, and read it. Then he read it again. “Good show,” he said, and placed it securely back into Crowley’s hand. “I think I’ll see if the restaurant is still serving. I should rather like a bit of pudding, and perhaps a nightcap.”

Crowley nodded and began untying his boots. It was only after there came a knock upon door, subtle at first and growing louder as the moments passed, that he paused to read the note:

_Anthony Crowley, Esq. --_

I will very much look forward to more thoroughly making your acquaintance.

Yrs &c.,  
Byron

“Well,” said Crowley, suddenly quite sober.

It was going to be a long night.

\------------------

[1] One evening in early autumn, after an unsatisfying supper of leek soup, Crowley advised the young philosopher to give up writing and flee the city.

“But why?” Rousseau had asked, his long hands trembling.

“They’re watching you.” Crowley gave him a meaningful wink, then proceeded to drink him under the table. Rousseau woke up in a trench, vowed to never again expose his bare arse to an unwitting stranger, and redoubled his efforts in prose.

[2] Unbeknownst to Crowley, one of these things was true.


End file.
